


As The Wolf Devours

by SoHereWeAre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Control, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Dom! Sansa, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face Slapping, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wedding, Woman on Top, cousin marriage, show verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 21:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoHereWeAre/pseuds/SoHereWeAre
Summary: For the asoiafrarepairs prompt :"robin/sansa and/or sansa/unnamed hot dornish prince: post-s8, a political marriage grows into a real one"I chose a Robin/Sansa pairing. This is Show Verse, not Book Verse.





	As The Wolf Devours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jonarya786](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonarya786/gifts).



> Thanks to Jonarya786 for making me aware of this prompt from the asoiafrarepairs page on Tumblr !  
> Thanks to sansafeels for the lovely moodboard!  
> Thanks to those reading this. It was an interesting new pair to try to write! I feel comfortable writing this since the actor who played Robin Arryn is now thankfully of legal age so I am guilt-free.  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/165748359@N03/48034310348/in/dateposted-public/)

The first night, they laid atop of the soft fur covers on their backs, side-by-side; nary a touch or word between them, nor a moving of the fabric of their sumptuous wedding attire. She hadn't even bothered to remove her slippers or the jeweled necklace, the gift of her newly acquired husband. Perhaps she should have been more kind. Offer words of reassurance or a cup of wine. But then the memories of her two previous wedding nights came to mind and she lay frozen, unfeeling, uncaring. At least now she did not have to tolerate unwanted advances or a sadistic rape but the memories hardened her, making her as stiff as the fabric of her lovely bridal gown. Not a wink of sleep was to be had, and from the restlessness beside her, he was just as tense as she was.

The second night was the same, and the third and the fourth; the only difference being they had opted for bed clothes; she in a most modest shift and he in a long shirt and trousers. 

On the fifth night he had fallen asleep quickly, no doubt exhausted from all the revelries thrown in honor of the Queen In the North's highly approved marriage alliance between the North and The Vale. The Northmen knew how to celebrate with drunken abandon, turning a very solemn land into a rip-roaring good time. Sansa's smiles and dancing were perfunctory and a shadow disguising her true self, one seething with resentment and loneliness and emptiness. She felt as cold as the North's winters, as alone as the North stood in independence, and her husband's clammy touch in a row and his soft lips grazing her cheek did nothing to assuage the dead inside of her. She had seen too much, experienced too much, and had been loved too little for anyone to evoke any emotion in her now. Her lifelong dream to be a Queen was realized and it was everything she has wanted and nothing she had thought it to be.

She ruled. Yet she ruled over a land laid to waste from the wars. It was a hollow victory when so many had lost their lives. It was a solitude when the remnants of her family were gone. Jon north of the Wall, Bran in the South, and Arya gods knew where. She did not even have a Hand, with Brienne and Davos in the South. She and she alone made the decisions without council...just as she had made the choice to marry.

As Queen for the past three years, she had been constantly barraged by marriage proposals. Whether by raven or by visit, she entertained them all, graciously penning or speaking her appreciation and flattery in a polite decline. She had no intention of ever marrying again but then the grumblings began. The fickle Northmen were not happy with a Queen; those that stayed silent in reverence to the Stark name now mumbled about heirs and women unfit to rule. Sansa was astute enough to realize it would take nothing for a rebellion to dispose of her and place a male as King Of The North. The Stark name could only hold loyalty so long before ambitious and power-hungry men would rise up, seeing her as a weak woman needing disposed. She even questioned the loyalty of her own Queensguard. The most sensible thing to do to ensure she remained secure was to find herself a suitor and marry. 

Out of all the possibilities, the one she carefully considered the most was the handsome Prince Of Dorne, who had traveled to the North to call on her. He was debonair and dashing and a tad scandalous in his courting of her. No doubt he was perfect to look at but he held her too tightly in dancing and laughed too loudly in her ears. It wasn't just his careless attitude that put her off but also his overwhelming sexuality. She knew he would not be one to rule quietly by her side and in their bed he would be even less so. She sent him on his way back to Dorne as quickly as she could with sweet hollow words of a maybe. 

Ser Yohn Royce's letter by raven was initially set aside with only a mere glance, but one evening after a frustrating day of governing, she picked it up once again to read. The offer of Lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, the head of House Arryn, the Warden of the East and Lord Paramount of the Vale of Arryn as her husband was something she had rejected. Her last association of him was at the Council to decide on Tyrion's fate and nominate Bran as King. Truly he had grown into a surprisingly healthier young man, clearly growing into his looks and thriving under the close mentoring from Yohn, but all she could see was the little brat who destroyed her snow castle in the Eyrie and wanted to push everyone through the Moon Door while sucking on his mother's teat at aged ten. Even then he had been considered as a match for her, so she supposed now the offer was only natural. The boy seemed still very easily persuaded, as he heeded Ser Royce's advice as law. He had professed he was in love with her when he was just a little boy, following her around like a lost dog, even as he was prone to temper tantrums and was used to getting his own way. Her eyes had lingered on the scroll, weighing her options. Robin was non-threatening and sheltered. No doubt he was a greenboy and never knew what being with a woman was like or all that it entailed. It could be a political move on her part, something for show, something to keep the unrest in the North at bay. Robert Arryn's name was still respected, as was the Vale for their part in the reclaiming of Winterfell. Robin brought with him both old respect and new, and perhaps Sansa would also acquire ser Yohn Royce as her hand, adding another element of male into her circle. She would keep Robin in Winterfell for only a brief period of time and then send him packing back to the Vale, using the excuse that he was the only one fit to oversee the Eyrie. 

She just didn't think much of Robin and their married life.

They arrived the day before the wedding at her request; the less time to mull around and exchange pleasantries the better. It had been shocking to see the young man jauntily sweeping off of his horse - she thought he could not ride, that he was scared of horses - doffing his cap in a sweeping bow. He was taller than she, and filled out more in the shoulders and chest than she remembered, although he was still slim under his sky blue finery. Only the pale cast of his skin against his dark brown eyes and hair told the tale of his sickly childhood; she stood rooted as his thin fingers grasped for hers, bringing her hand to his overly soft lips as she stared down at his angular nose and wide eyes. When he spoke to say how he missed his cousin and she has grown more beautiful since the last time he laid eyes on her, she was shocked at the deepening of his voice, trying to remember the screeching of the mindless little boy she tolerated.

The sixth night she turned on her side to face him as he slept on his back, studying his profile as he snored lightly, his hands resting on his chest. He looked younger in sleep, even though there was but a six year difference between their ages, and she frowned. He did not have much of Aunt Lysa in him, aside from the paleness of his skin and dark circles under his eyes and her longer nose. The rest must be his father. She wondered if his mind was sound or if the afflictions he had as a child progressed in him into adulthood. She sighed. She had not chosen him for his strength or ability to produce heirs. She wanted him for the name, the reputation, and for his personal weakness of mind and body. Yet she had not counted on him to be...handsome. She reached out to touch his hair, soft and silky through her hands. He stirred and she jerked her hand away but did not move from her side. He turned his head and looked at her, startled, his thick eyebrows raising. Impulsively she kissed his forehead and turned to her side, closing him off from her sight. He was her husband now, he was in Winterfell. Her home, not his.

Harmless. Handsome. Hers.

The seventh night was the last evening for the celebrations. Sansa sat at the high table with Robin to her right and she watched the dancing. The lack of sleep had made her tired and this last night she refrained from participating, making her apologies and explaining the revelries had drained her. Lords chuckled knowingly around her, elbowing each other and raising their cups to Robin, who raised his own cup in response while tapping his right foot nervously. Sansa managed a tight-lipped smile at their ribald assumptions as her eyes swept the hall. Couples dancing, holding each other, laughing and nuzzling and caressing, happy and laughing and kissing, flushed with love or lust or whatever they were feeling for their partners. A pang entered her breast, a sudden longing to have what she did not. 

A Queen lonely in the world is a terrible thing.

This was, finally, a marriage of her choosing. Robin was now hers. She wondered if he had a choice in the matter, or if Yohn convinced him that it was a smart match or told him that none would dare refuse a Queen's acceptance. She knew what it was like to have no choice, and she knew what it was like to choose - even though there was no opportunity to refuse - and be punished greatly for it, and she attempted to extend some feeling towards the young cousin beside her but she was barren of sympathy. Men would always have a choice.

She knew she could mold Robin and she also now knew he would not be so bold to touch her. Something stirred in her then as she looked at him clumsily slurping his wine, a few dribbles of red running down his chin and long neck. Dornish wine, barrels of the finest that had arrived from the rejected Prince as a token of his graceful loss. Unthinking, her fingers reached out to catch the droplets before they reached the top of his dark grey tunic - a nod to Stark colors - sweeping upward, feeling his surprise in the pulse point on his neck as he turned, startled, his dark eyes wide.

He looked as frightened as a helpless as a doe being taken down by a direwolf and Sansa retracted her fingers to find her linen cloth by her plate. She offered a small smile while she dabbed away at the rest of the wine and observed as Robin relaxed into the touch. Perhaps it reminded him of his mother, the hovering Lysa, and he politely thanked her as she finished and return to her cups, drinking deeply. The wine coursed through her body, warming her as she once again turned her attentions to the crowd, staring longingly at the throng of lovers. Lady and servant alike would be tumbled tonight, either in beds or straw or the cold ground, while she would lie in her chaste and cold Queen's chambers.  
Sansa's hand clenched her cup so tightly her knuckles turned white. 

 

********************

 

Sansa entered first, as she did the six nights previously, allowing Robin to shut and bolt her solar door after a servant had provided a full flask of wine and varying delicacies to nibble on if hunger or thirst would strike. Robin would munch and drink almost as mindlessly as a child and she would decline, her stomach in rows. Tonight she poured herself a cup while waiting on Robin to emerge from the discreet screen and he appeared, his night shirt laced up to the top and his breeches still on, bare of feet. Tall and slim, he avoided her watchful gaze as he sauntered over to his side of the bed.

Quietly she set her cup down on the table and made her way behind the screen, touching the soft cloth of her night gown. She had purposely chosen simple gowns to make for an easy undress as to not have to call in a servant or ask Robin for help with her lacings. This one, in dark grey to compliment Robin's attire, laced up the front in white. She shimmied out of her dress and slowly shed herself of her smallclothes, leaving her standing naked. She did not shiver; the servants had seen to it that the fire in the hearth crackled with ferocity, and coupled with the hot springs running through the walls, her room was basked in warmth.

"Did you enjoy the celebrations in our honor, Cousin?" Her voice rang clear and strong as her hands swept up to unplait her braided hair, shaking out her glorious auburn mane so it fell it waves around her milky white shoulders. "It is a pity they have come to an end, is it not?"

She heard the clearing of his throat.

"Aye, it was fun." As always, the deepened voice startled her, even though she had heard it enough during the days. 

Sansa drew a deep breath. Her hands skimmed over her body as her eyes closed, her fingers tracing where she knew her scars to be. From the top of her breasts to the inside of her thighs, silver-white marks never to fade away completely. Her beauty was sung in poems and prose but none had ever seen her marks. She has always carried them with her but perhaps now it was time to lay those to rest as well.

Why could she not, as a Queen, have what even the most common of folk had?

For a moment she hesitated, her thick skin melting away to expose the girl she once was underneath, but it was only for a heartbeat or two as she emerged from the screen, tossing her tresses over her shoulders, naked as her nameday as she approached the bed. 

Robin's eyes widened and he scrambled from his laying posiiton to sit upright, his back pushed up against the board of the bed. His hands pushed back his tousled dark brown hair as his mouth gaped open, blatantly looking her up and down and deciding to settle his eyes to stare at her breasts while his hands slid down to cup between his legs that he was trying to cross.

"Did Ser Royce ever tell you there is more to marriage than dancing and feasts and sleeping on top of the covers?" She couldn't help but smile. "Do you know that we have not yet made this a valid union?"

"I - I saw - saw Myranda once. On accident. With some - uh - stableboy - " From the foot of the bed she could see him blush in the firelight.

"So you've never had a woman?" She felt a surge of satisfaction sweeping over her when he slowly shook his head. "Then this will be something new for the both of us."

She crawled up onto the bed and slid up to his side, sitting on her haunches to face him. She didn't have to touch him to know he was trembling and she remembered how scared she was. Her fright was justified and she immediately shut her mind to it, buried it like she always had. It had no place here. Instead, she leaned in to brush her lips against his and meeting a little resistance. It was a awkward kiss; she had never been kissed before and neither had her cousin. His lips were soft and pliable and tasted of meat and wine; no doubt she tasted the same way to him. It was still good and warm and she increased the pressure while her hands sought the ties on his nightshirt. Deftly her fingers worked as they kissed, leaving the top half loose enough to pull over his head. She broke the kiss to pull up the cloth and he raised his arms to be shed of it so his torso was exposed. He mouth was open, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and her fingers made traces over his hairless chest. He was broad of shoulders and even though slim, he had ridges and she drew invisible lines across them. Her eyes couldn't help but travel to the obvious bulge in his breeches. 

"Do you want to touch me?" She could hear his raspy breath as he made no move to respond. To encourage him, Sansa grabbed his hand and placed it on her left breast. "Touch me."

She never made such a demand in her life but it came easily to her now. And he did touch her with a shaky hand, skimming over her nipple as if it were made of glass before cupping her breast. She raised up on her knees and when he leaned forward she threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling tight as he moved in to take her already hardening bud into his mouth. She remembers the vicious bites that would make her cry and braces herself, but all she feels is the warm wetness and suction. Sansa can't help but pull him in closer, tighter, and the feeling shoots straight down between her legs when his tongue is added, flicking her nipple underneath his plump lips. 

Robin releases her nipple and starts to suck on her other one. Here he seems confident, persistent, at ease. His hand covers her abandoned breast, kneading softly, and though the feeling is divine, Sansa wants more. It seems her cousin would be content to suckle her through the night like a babe but the feeling leaves her wanting more.  
Boldly she grips the back of his head and falls onto her back, taking him with her so he is lying up against her on his side, his lips still at her breasts. A small whine emits from him as he continues to lave at her breasts and she feels herself growing tender under his ministrations. With an impatient sigh, she once again grabs hold of his hand and shoves it down unceremoniously between her legs where she is already heated and maybe even a little damp. He tenses then, his palm cupping her and he breaks away from her nipple with a pop. His muddy eyes meet hers and she grows impatient at the confusion on his face; she reaches down to clasp two of his long, spindly fingers together before gliding them over her tiny nub, guiding them in circles. At least here she was left unmarred by knives, even though it was threatened on more than one occasion.

Robin drops his head and pants into the crook of her neck as she spreads her legs a little farther to guide his fingers inside of her. His heavy breaths turns to a gasp as she suppresses her own while clasping his hand to move in-and-out. It stings a little - it has been so long since anything had been inside of her - but it feels good. It is something new and it lights a fire inside, a craving, and something primal awakens in her. She tilts her hips and he learns quickly enough so she can use both of her hands to pull his head back down to her breasts and once again. The sensation of her breasts being sucked while fingers are moving in a cautiously slow fucking is overwhelming, but there is more she wants and knows that she can now demand and receive. Something she has heard servants whisper about in giggling tones when they don't know she is eavesdropping.

"I want to feel your mouth elsewhere." Robin's head tilts up and a look of confusion crosses his handsome but pale face. "Where your fingers are," she elaborated, her eyes looking down at his still-moving hand.

He slides down to her stomach and then a little lower, still lying on his side, his fingers still inside of her. His other hand skims through her red curls and he stares down at it, seemingly fascinated.

"That is where a woman finds pleasure. That little nub of flesh. You do so well at my breasts, SweetRobin, I want to see how well you do there." 

Fingers pushed up her hair and spread her lips, and Sansa all but cried out when his mouth covered and suctioned around her clit. It was wonderful. Her hand pushed his head into her and the pressure increased, his tongue circling as it did on her nipple, and his fingers moved once again inside her. She should have been embarrassed at the sounds filling the room, slurping and sucking and breathing and moaning; she realized the moans were her own. It came upon her quickly, the buildup, the tension, and the sudden violence of her desire pushed her over the edge as she came. She didn't let him pull away as she climaxed with a small cry, holding him there until she was done with her dizzying-white orgasm. His fingers slipped out of her and when he raised his head his mouth glistened with her juices. He sat up on his knees and stared at his wet fingers before placing them in his mouth.

"Take off your breeches," she demanded. Her lust was not slaked. Not with this newfound power she held.

"After - after what I just did?" He seemed confused again. "I don't -"

"I said, take off your breeches." And less harshly: "I do not expect you to last long so I wanted to take my pleasures while I could. Take them off and lie down."

"But -" he fumbled with the laces as fast as he could -"I should lie on top of you? That is the way I saw Myranda -"

"No. You will lie down." 

Sansa reached over to help tug his pants off. He wore no smallclothes and his cock sprang free, jutting upward from a small thatch of dark hair. It was the first time she saw a cock without feeling dread or terror, and it was far larger than the Bolton bastard's. Odd on such a tall, slender young man but still it was impressive all the same.

The breeches tossed aside, a completely naked Robin laid hesitantly on the bed while Sansa crept up between his hairless legs. He was watching her warily but there was also excitement in his eyes as she straddled his hips. She had never been in this position before; never was she ever in control. It was a heady experience to guide him inside of her and lower herself down, hissing at the fullness but smiling at the sounds of Robin's groans and whimpers, his arms flailing out reaching for something to grab hold of, his neck wanting to arch as his head was thrown back but at the same time he wanted to watch her ride him. She felt as if she were devouring him; she was taking him instead of him taking her. She was robbing him of his innocence and taking pleasure in it. It didn't take long for him to thrust up to meet her, filling her up even more deeply; in repayment she tore his hand from the furs he was clutching and pushed it up against where she ended and he began, pressing his fingers into the slippery mess of her nub. 

She didn't let go, holding him so tightly against her by his wrist and he knew what was expected as he haphazardly rubbed to give her more pleasure. She could feel another peak building but felt him spill his seed inside of her with an unmanly shout, but that did not deter her from getting hers as she furiously fucked him through his orgasm, chasing it before his erection could soften completely. His nimble fingers brought her off and she cried out in pure triumph before collapsing down onto his body and rolling off to the side.

Both of them were breathless, panting, sweating, sticky in between their legs, lying side-by-side as they had done the previous six nights, only now both bare and satiated. Sansa turned her head to glance at her newly deflowered husband, who was staring almost blankly up at the ceiling.

"You took me like a woman." His accusing tone was soft but near to whining. "I think a wife should not act in such a manner."

"Is that such a way to speak to your Queen? You seemed to like it well enough." The indignant act from him was insulting to her and raised her ire even in her afterglow. She could feel his seed starting to leak out of her and she needed to remember moon tea in the morning.

"You are not my Queen. You are only queen of this cold barbaric north. I am part of the Six Kingdoms. And your husband. You used me like a man would a whore."

"What did you say?" Sansa raised up on her knees, her hands on her hips. Robin was sounding like the little brat she would argue with when she spent time in the Eyrie. He did not look at her.

"I said, you are not my Queen -"

The crack of her palm against his cheek resonated through the room as she slapped him. He did not show any anger or retaliation; there was an odd glow in his dark eyes when he finally looked at her.

"I believe we get along better when you do not speak. Like it has been for the past six nights." The blood boiled in her but so did something else. It was the same feeling when his mouth was at her breasts, at her cunt, and the same fulfillment she had while he was inside of her. "It seems I will need to silence you all through the night."

He opened his mouth to say something else but she swiftly moved until she was straddling his face, grabbing his hair to tilt his head upwards. Just before she lowered her cunt onto his already opening mouth, she saw the smirk on his lips and the sparkle in his eyes.

Perhaps this marriage would benefit her more than just politically after all.


End file.
